Sweet Cupcake Lullabies
by SomethingSimsy
Summary: Multi-verse travel, a creation by no other than 2P!America, 2P!England's source of pure hatred and unrequited love doomed for demise, two poles he would go to either end of the world for – or another world entirely, where he holds no deceptive smile and America is no longer seeking his end. A plot for kidnap, deceit and control – will it end in tears, blood, or a love never sought?


**I know there seems to have been an influx of Another Colour / 2p! stories recently, however, I have had this idea for awhile and it hasn't left me since... I hope it's unique enough!**

**Note:**** These 2p's are a little bit more in-depth than just crazy-arse killers, though that is an element with a reason (not all to be explained just yet)!**

_**PLEASE READ THE WHOLE CHAPTER BEFORE DECIDING TO READ THE NEXT OR NOT, IT'S APPRICIATED, THANKS!**_

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own the characters presented in this fanfiction or Hetalia**

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**Sweet Cupcake Lullabies**

_**Chapter 1: The Desires of Another Colour**_

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"That bastard..."

England splashed water over his face for the third time as he leaned over the bathroom sink, letting it gently roll off his cheeks and slick his hair. He pushed himself up by his hands to come face-to-face with a pristine mirror. He narrowed his eyes at his reflection and his eyebrows creased mockingly south. Red. His eyes looked _far_ too red and bloodshot for him to be able to cover anything up, show his face again. His blotched cheeks were hardly any better, either. "Bastard..." England muttered again as he sunk back down with the feeling of pure despair, his heated skin immediately cooling as he clutched the sink's edge for dear life. He closed his eyes, letting himself immerse in the feeling.

But when his eyes snapped open, he quickly wished he hadn't.

England's head hit the mirror as he jolted forward, cracking it under the sudden pressure, crying out in pain as that _thing _kept watching him. "_What in hell–?_"

"Aha, deary, _don't_." the wickedly wide smile said with a devious wink to its owner's eyes. "You don't want to cause unnecessary trouble, do you?"

England heard the blood rush in his ears, his heart thumping against his chest so forcefully he may snap a rib. His eyes darted around his vicinity as he continued to stare down into the wells of the sink, nowhere but the sink... _Distractions. _He glanced up and caught eyes with the fiend staring back at him – his gaze shot back down and he squeezed his eyes shut as he groaned. _Think, damn it, think!_ Only a single question crossed England's mind: "What are you?"

"_What _you ask, hm?" the other man mused, his eyes drifting skyward as he stroked his chin. He shortly let a sly smile fall over his features. "Well, isn't it obvious? I am not human," the man said only to be interrupted with a snort by England, "but neither are you."

England felt the tenseness ease from his shoulders as he straightened up, but he honestly couldn't have thought of why. And as England swivelled around, his eyes growing wide and his body twisting, he felt his confidence deteriorate into a thousand ashes, a thousand new questions spreading across his mind like wildfire. _This man... _England gulped, but oddly felt his throat scratch at him even so.

_He's me. _

And that was all England could think before a crafty hand wrapped itself around his mouth and began to steal his breath away. He struggled and thrashed from side to side, trying to free himself. But to no avail. A white cloth intoxicatingly chemical silenced his screams and he fell limp, vaguely thinking back to all the lives that had led him to his untimely demise in the first place, on the bathroom floor, in the evil clutches of some pastel-clad clone he had never set eyes on before in his life – only dreams, he had thought.

And just down the hall, those countries didn't hear a single thing.

* * *

"England's been gone for awhile..."

America looked up. He wasn't sure who had said it, but honestly, the speaker didn't spark his interested even slightly. The statement, however, was enough to make his brow crease. "He has?"

"Yes." the first voice replied steadily, and America vaguely took notice it was France. "Should I check on him?"

"No," Germany added as all eyes wandered to him, "we all should. We cannot continue like this."

And so with unified glances of mild concern, all the nations rose from the grand table they sat at and turned towards the door England had silently stalked out of around half an hour before, the first strings of heavy tears in his eyes. Or, at least, that was how they all dramatised it – especially America. "How long ago did he leave, anyway?"

Japan frowned slightly before he raised his wrist and peered down. "It must have been around an hour ago now, America..."

"An hour...?" America thought aloud with surprise, but he walked out of the room into the endless hallway nonetheless, leading the way. "Where do you think he went off to?"

"Oh, knowing _him_, probably the bathroom," France said with a laugh, but it was clear his attempts at lightening the weighting mood had failed bitterly. "I'm sure you of all people know that is hardly new, hm? Nothing to worry about."

America barely faltered as he continued walking forward. "Yeah, well... We should find him."

And the group walked on, minds in set of finding England sulking with his arms crossed, his lips pouted and his brows furrowed, pacing the public bathroom in an awful mood. But nothing worse. Nothing worse at all. _Nothing. _

_If only_, England's subconscious wished. However, his wishes made little difference as his limp body was pushed into the back of an elevator, the other pastel-clad man struggling and stumbling under the dead weight. "I didn't expect this..." the man muttered as he frowned with distaste at the body slumped under his arms, but a perky smile quickly brightened his face and his blue eyes crinkled as he let the body go for a second, reaching over to select his desired floor as _ground_. "Well, I have what I want!" he almost sang. Honestly, how couldn't he?

This man had just saved another's life, from a soul more blood-stained and chilling than his Italy's blade, or, secretly, his own.

_America_. The name flashed across the man's mind again like it was permanently engraved there. How long had it been since he had last thought even the smallest of positive thoughts about the man, a man who was once clutched so dear? He growled through his teeth as he felt his cheery smile darken. Even _that _wouldn't be unlikely under the circumstances. He hummed darkly as the elevator door came to a fluid close and it descended. _America... If you won't let me have you..._

_Well_,the man thought with a gleam in his eye. _I'll just have to get you another way, poppet. _

The elevator _dinged _in recognition of its arrival and the man was pulled out of his spiral of thoughts. The man with England slumped in his arms let himself pull a stretched smile. With that he walked out, dragging the body of the blond in the grips of his stronger hands. He even laughed, ignoring the horrified eyes behind level desks that were locked onto him as if they had just witnessed a murder – no, something greater than that. But they would be right; how could they not?

They had witnessed a savoir, a saving, one of the greatest acts of all humanity.

In truth, however, under the scrutiny of the daylight in the night-black situation, they had witnessed something a whole lot _worse _– as well as tasted it, and not only the fear, in the form of an abundance of charmingly childish, coloured cupcakes that they had unfortunately stuffed into their mouths.

Every man and woman and living being and eater in that reception room felt their conscious slip away. They were cold, dead-like as they fell forward with heavy _bangs _as their bodies slammed against the desks. The pastel man couldn't find himself entirely caring as he blinked his blue eyes, scuffled his shined shoes cutely. _It doesn't matter... Not now..._

* * *

"Gentlemen..." a man said as he stood with his wrists crossed behind his back, completely out of freewill – _like a soldier_, he thought, not letting the thought sink in too deeply for the snort it seemed to bring him every occasion was incredibly distracting, and distractions were not a thing he needed at a time as such. Of course, he had a reason – "What do you think the meaning of 'multi-verse travel' is?"

"What do _you _think, _porcellino?_" Italy grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest, his temperamental side taking a shine as he narrowed his red eyes. "It's obviously the theory of–!"

"No, Italy." The man smirked. "It's no longer just a stupid _theory_, give me some respect, just because _you _don't deserve any."

Italy glared the man down alongside every occupant of the room, all except one. "And why–?"

"Because I said so and because I did so," the man said cockily, raking a gloved hand through his blood-red hair, "and, of course, because I have just _invented_ the thing in question..." After a lengthy pause, the man started to grow a flicker agitated. "Thanks for your applause, bitches."

But the applause never came. Not even a single clap of hands – not even _one. _

The last of the man's smile dropped, his eyes glistening with malice as he lowered a glare to every soul of the meeting board. "What?" he spat, cocking his head to the side with a frustrated groan. "I already know none of you are even _close _to this kind of technology!"

"No, but that's exactly the point," France muttered bitterly with a certain pinch of honesty from across the table, his eyes cast downwards as he was, once again, caught up in his own thoughts.

"Oh," the red-headed man said with a slight frown, before the corners of his lips twisted into a devilish smirk of triumph. "_Oh_, so _that's _what this is!"

And the man awaited the familiar ring of the annoying pest that had come to the meeting adorned in pink knit with the familiar blinking blue eyes. The man's brow furrowed and his ears perked as he awaited the predictable laugh or twiddle of strawberry hair or mindless chatter and babble he _really _didn't care to listen to.

The room remained deathly silent. And then the whole façade shattered. "You _bastard!_"

* * *

"_I'm sick of your crap! Why do you hate me, England?"_

"England!" America called with a stale sigh as he pounded his fist on the thick bathroom door. "Get your ass out here...!"

_England rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of a new kind of emotion there – something softer, something coming undone. But it quickly ravelled back up when he caught sight of the glare America was sending him. "You're just acting like a completely idiotic five-year-old, America! Why would your tiny mind ever think–?"_

One fiercer pound with a bone-breaking _crack _on the door and the heavy frame swung open, creaking painfully slowly on its hinges before it came to a rocking stop.

"_There you go again, England, criticizing me as if I'm just a child!" America shouted back, huffing as he turned his head the other way. _

_England felt his eye twitch. "You _are _just a child, America! You refuse to listen to anything anyone advises you!" _

America was slightly taken aback as he eyed the widened gap in front of him with equally wide eyes as if it should have never been there, but he pushed the remaining inches of the door back before he could get a full view of the bathroom. "Err... England?"

"_Well why in hell would I _want _to listen to you?" America asked back with another huff, another angry set of eyes going out and going back in. _

_England took a step forward. "And what's _that _supposed to mean, America?" _

_America took a step forward. "It means I'm sick of your snobby bullshit! I can do what I want and you can't stop me!"_

His calls were not returned. In fact, no answer was given as America spoke England's name, nor from in front of him or behind. "Err, guys?" America eventually said shakily, swivelling his head around to get a good view of his fellow nations – that was, of course, if they were there.

_England hardly hesitated as he barked back his own proposal with a bite at the tense air, "And who declared that proposition, America?" The tension was so thick it could be sliced with a knife. The situation was quickly escalating._

_He didn't have to say it. America didn't have to take a step back, let England fall face-first into the grave he had undoubtedly dug himself. America didn't have to seal the contract, bury the man six feet under and left to dig himself out, if he ever would. But England had brought it on himself. It had been over two hundred years since then. England had faced many battles, many fights – this, America thought, was no different. _

_America had undoubtedly thought wrong._

Taking a step back into the deserted hallway, America poked his head from side to side, viewing his alone-standing status with a hint of suspicion in his eye, caution in his movements. But he was alone, well and truly.

"I _did," he almost shouted, finding his loud voice boom in the heat of the moment, "I did the day I kicked your ass to the ground and you _cried!_"_

_America knew no "I'm joking" would cut it that time, not as England had turned pale and silent, his eyebrows pulled back and his mouth parted with the words he couldn't say. He left shortly after gathering his things. _

The others had moved on, apparently, left America's back and side. The others had dealt with the fact England was absent from the bathroom and went to search elsewhere. America could only wonder how long he had been standing there with his own thoughts that went unregistered, unheard, before he released a sigh.

Deep in his heart, in every hidden corner, America couldn't spare himself any guilt. It was his entire fault and he knew it – he couldn't escape it. This time, he had taken it a step too far, hadn't he?

_Yeah_, he thought with another sigh, raking a hand through his sandy-blonde hair as he readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. _You've messed up this time..._

And that was all America could think before he called it a day and went to leave the building, not taking any notice of the receptionists who seemed a little too drowsy to be properly performing their jobs. He hardly took notice at first of the fact one of them was fully slumped over, face-down on their desk; he sighed in contentment as he thought about sleep, his eyes glancing over at a basket of cakes that had been left exposed on the desk. In fact, the worker next to them was also slumped over, half a cake having clearly rolled out of their hand and onto the floor.

_You want a cake. _

America blinked in surprise. Who was–?

_Take a cupcake, America. Eat it. You have no one to scold you now England's gone. _America found himself grimacing at the thought of the near-tear man he had so dearly upset, and the voice quickly came back, stumbling over their words, _B-but he isn't truly gone, you see. He is just gone from here – he is happily eating cake after cake, indulging in all the things he misses about you – he misses you, America. Perhaps you should come and get him? He's terribly lonely, poppet. _

America frowned. "How do I do that?" he said to the open air as his eyes fell back down to the brightly baked delights in front of him. Had he _always _been that close to them?

The voice laughed sweetly. _Why, you just need to eat a cupcake, of course! That's all it takes, all it–_

And before the voice could even gasp at the sudden lack of response back, the owner looked down with blue eyes sparkling wide in a sense of stunned confusion at the sight before him, before a sinister smirk settled over their face. "Silly glutton..."

America was out cold, lying curled in the foetal position on the wooden floor. In his limp hand was an unwrapped cupcake oozing a crimson-red liquid out of the centre, the gurgles of liquid being lapped up by the rest of the treat like a toxic sponge. With another shake of his head and a strangely fond smile now settling onto his once venomous face, the pastel man who baked the cupcakes leaned forwards with now empty arms, brushing the loose locks of blonde hair out of the unconscious man's face.

_This America_, the man thought with a small sigh to accompany him in the deadly quiet building, _actually cared when I made him think about his England... I managed to make an America sad over myself... This America is honestly adorable–_

It was a shame honestly, the cupcake man thought as he disappointedly stepped back. No, he didn't even entertain the idea of replacing his precious hot-headed America with this preposterous imposter – no, never...

The man's eyes fell over the other blond – who he recognised as his double of sorts – who he had left slumped to the side of the elevator, propped against the cold wall with the cover of a plant pot. It had apparently worked. His whole plan, actually. It had never been that easy before... Never!

The cupcake man went for his own double first, picking him up under the arms and dragging him through the building in the opposite direction of the entrance – he couldn't risk it.

Once the emergency exit had been located, the man pushed the door open awkwardly with his behind and his smile never faltered. Even as the droning tirade of the alarm screamed at the top of its lungs, his smile was warm, like a beacon of hope to his own darkness – he was having a hard time even comprehending how you could view such a situation any differently, not that he even bothered to entertain such negative thoughts.

With a single jolt, his double's body was safely thrown on the car park gravel, his soft milky skin scraped slightly on impact, turning it scratchy and red with wounds. But the man's smile stayed ever strong, if not stronger; he only had one more body, after all – perhaps the most important to some degree in his plan, and in the insane degree of euphoria he felt growing on him, he couldn't even imagine how any amount of pressure that could come from that would equal the amount his sharp blade could apply if it was withdrawn from his back pocket– all protection, of course. Defence. This was a mission he had to return from – besides, he had rather _personal _issues to resolve.

To the beat of the droning alarm in his rattling eardrums that was calling in a loop, the man rushed forward and scooped up the heavier of the two bodies – America's. He dragged him backwards toward the emergency exit like before, pulling him closer as he began to move to a new rhythm, one much more lively and rhythmic than the sound of the dead drone – a heartbeat, pumping fresh blood around the body of the man he held so closely in his arms. Just like his America. _Just like my sweetheart_, he thought with a soft sigh, his cheeks starting to ache with the severity of his smile. _In dear time... _

Little did this man know at the time that his plans would take a sharp left turn. Little did this man know as he gently lowered the body of America down into the same position as England, stepping into the small area himself in the car park, that his desires would make him crave something more than his sweet, devilish America and his own cupcakes that he longed so dearly for his America to eat, for them not to be spat back in his face. Little did this man know that, as an intense glow turned the world white and he was thrown to the ground and sucked through it, he would start to wish for something more than anything else. Little did this man know that it would probably end up killing him.

Little did this man know that through the loud droning of the emergency alarm a team of startled nations had rushed through, some screaming in horror at the humans that looked as if they had been frozen in death for several hours, some frowning in total confusion at the gushing cupcakes laid astray all over the floor with icing smeared in lines, some stuttering as they shielded their eyes from the blinding light that vanished within a second.

Little did this man know that the drawn lines of a field etched into the car park were still visible, still traceable, still _usable _– how much he _would _regret it nobody would ever understand.

All the nations did understand was that when their feet crossed paths with the lines and they stood in total confusion staring down at them, that there was a fragment of glass there.

"My car's headlights..." Germany grumbled in slight annoyance, but his voice grew distant, calm with confusion and lulled into a state he couldn't seem to escape. "My... I didn't feel any glass cut me on the cheek..."

And then everything went white.

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**I hope that wasn't too confusing, but anyway, this is just a first chapter, and if anyone wants a continuation then I have a lot of plans (actually, who am I kidding, I would probably update this anyway)! Feedback appreciated. Thanks a bunch, guys!**


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